


Certain Skills

by NoStraightLine



Series: Trying to Find The In-Between [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: DVD Extras, Gratuitous porn, Gun Kink, Gun porn, I'm Going to Hell, John's a BAMF, M/M, Porn Porn, Sherlock gets what he asked for, that's the best kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 01:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoStraightLine/pseuds/NoStraightLine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s never done this before. Never even imagined it.</p><p>He draws his hand back and presses the muzzle into Sherlock’s lower back. “Shirt off,” he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certain Skills

**Author's Note:**

> This is a DVD extra scene for [Trying To Find The In Between](http://archiveofourown.org/works/806621) that takes place after One Temporary Escape and before Count The Flaws. I’m not sure why my muse needed five months, a baseball-sized chocolate cupcake, and a nap to spin up the rather obvious gun kink for this scene, but she did. Better late than never.
> 
> No worries if you haven’t read the series. All you really need to know to enjoy this smut is:  
> a) John expressly told Sherlock that if he stole his gun again he’d get the fucking he was asking for,  
> b) Sherlock “Boundaries Are Boring” Holmes stole John’s gun,  
> c) now it’s time to pay the piper, and  
> d) “the piper” = “pissed-off-BAMF-John-Watson”. 
> 
> Pure, unadulterated, consensual PWP with an unloaded gun so if that’s triggery for you, this fandom is awash in stellar porn. Thank God and all Her archangels. Go forth and savor. :)
> 
> If this works at all, it’s thanks to Kres and JustGot1. No carrots were harmed while writing this fic.

_**One hour earlier:** _   
  
_“Better?” John asks as he works his foot into his left shoe._

_“God, yes,” Sherlock purrs. He’s satiated, limp, a conduit for the bass pulsing in the walls and floor. The energy’s still there but dialed rather down, like a big cat after a good feed._

_“Not going to go after my gun when we get home?” John asks, tightening the laces._

_“Oh, I might,” Sherlock says, then lowers his voice. “Captain Watson.”_

_Filthy. Absolutely filthy. But they cannot explain away more gunshots to the Met, and it would be absolutely stupid to waste Lestrade’s supply of favors on something preventable. Knowing Sherlock, they’re going to need them later._

_“Do that and you’ll get the fucking you’re asking for,” John says matter-of-factly, as he stomps into the second shoe._

_Sherlock’s eyelids droop, his lashes thick and straight against the pale flush receding from his cheeks. A tremor rolls through his sprawled body, sending aftershocks through John’s. “The one I didn’t get tonight? Hands and knees, you pounding into me?”_

_“That’s the one,” John sings out as he snugs up the knots, then gets to his feet._

_A fire blazes up in Sherlock’s eyes as he looks up at John from his sprawl on the sofa._

_“Christ,” John says. “It’s an illegal firearm, not a sex toy, Sherlock.”_

_“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” Sherlock replies lazily._   
  
_**Now:** _

John clears the last two steps in one bound and shoves through the flat’s half-open door to see Sherlock, feet spread and planted, sighting along his extended arm as he ostentatiously takes aim at the wall.

He’s alive, burning like a pyre, as he looks at John. _I always get what I want._

John rolls his head on his neck to knock the tension from his shoulders. “You asked for it,” he growls.

Sherlock smiles. Bloody _smiles._

John catches the door on the rebound, and slams it shut. His eyes are still adjusted to the darkness in the back of the cab; using only the street light coming through the sitting room windows, he assesses the situation.

The clip is in the grip. The safety is off. Sherlock’s left index finger curls around the trigger. The _bastard_.

“Don’t move.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly.

He crosses the carpet to stand in front of Sherlock. His eyes slant down, towards John. They stand chest to chest, Sherlock’s back to the windows, John’s to the door. Sherlock’s head is still turned to sight along his raised left arm, his non-dominant and therefore weaker arm. Indulging the tantrum didn’t work, so now John will make him beg to hand over the gun.

“Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

He hooks his index finger in the top button of Sherlock’s shirt and tugs. The button pops open. The next button pings off into the shadows by the fireplace. The final two buttons skitter under the sofa as if terrified to stick around and watch the explosion.

Sherlock turns his head to stare at John. Their gazes locked, John jerks open Sherlock’s jeans and works them down just low enough to release his cock. John runs his knuckles over Sherlock’s balls and the underside of his shaft, sending tremors cascading through Sherlock’s shoulders, arms, to the tendons in his fingers. Sherlock’s trigger finger twitches, relaxes.

The gun is loaded. The safety is off. John’s never done this before, never even thought about it. But Sherlock is quite a pretty picture, bared from collarbones to groin, and he gets off on danger, and being seen.

“Pull that trigger and we’ll have Mrs Hudson, the police, and the neighbors here.” John circles to stand behind Sherlock, leaving him exposed to whoever might come through the flat’s door, then wraps his fist around Sherlock’s cock. “If that happens, if you so much as _flinch_ , you don’t get this.”

Three slow, steady pulls from glans to base and Sherlock’s arm goes taut. A low groan eddies through the air. John leans his forehead between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, breathing in his scent, skin and sweat and sex as he alternates between easing Sherlock’s foreskin over the damp head of his cock and stroking the length from tip to base. The need to surrender is in every shudder, every aborted jerk of Sherlock’s shoulders and hips. His breathing shallows, and the sweat-damp cotton rustles as he shifts, then squirms in place.  

“John.” A slight plea softens Sherlock’s imperious tone.

Not enough. “No," John says. "You drop your arm before I say so and I stop. Pull the trigger and I stop.”

Sherlock straightens his spine, stiffens his arm, but John continues the steady pulls, pausing every so often to tug down Sherlock’s bollocks and massage his perineum for good measure. Time stretches, thins, until eventually there’s a serious quiver in Sherlock’s shoulder, a tremor in his wrist that makes the gun muzzle twitch. “John, please.”

John doesn’t hear _please_ very often, so under normal circumstances he would reward that courtesy, but right now that’s the absolute bare minimum of what Sherlock will have to do to get what he wants. John says nothing, just steps into Sherlock’s back, letting him feel John’s erection against his backside as he cups Sherlock’s balls and strokes him. Sherlock’s hips jerk, his head drops back, and a sound shockingly near a whimper eddies from his throat.

“Please. Oh, _please_.”

That suits John’s mood much better. “Do exactly as I say. Finger off the trigger.”

Sherlock’s finger lifts to the indentation on the slide.

John gives him a firm stroke, with a little twist at the head. “Safety on.”

Sherlock thumbs the safety on.

“Good lad,” John says. Sherlock’s breath hitches. John makes him wait for the next step.

“Eject the clip.”

Sherlock brings his hand around and cups it under the grip to catch the clip as it drops, then clears the chamber.

“Hand it over.”

Sherlock passes it back. John tosses the clip on the desk. He’ll find somewhere to hide the fucking thing, later.

“Give me my gun.”

Sherlock lowers his arm. John disarms him, then, out of habit, checks the gun himself while Sherlock rolls his shoulder and flexes his fingers. Slide locked back, chamber empty, clip on the desk. John grips it, fingers curled around the handle, index finger automatically resting along the slide. It’s just a piece of gun-shaped metal now, useful for cracking nuts. Or arousing Sherlock.

He rests the hand holding the Sig on Sherlock’s right hip, then reaches round with his left hand and cups Sherlock’s balls. They're drawn up tight to his body; for a man who came like he’d been hit by a lorry only an hour earlier, Sherlock is very, very aroused. John strokes Sherlock’s cock again. Sherlock’s head turns slightly, looking down at the gun in John’s hand, resting on his hip.  

John’s never done this before. Never even imagined it.

He draws his hand back and presses the muzzle into Sherlock’s lower back. “Shirt off,” he says.

Sherlock’s erection lies hot and thick in John’s palm, so John can feel, quite clearly, the hot thump of blood, the jerk and lift, the pulse of pre-come over his fingers. Moving very carefully, Sherlock unfastens his cuffs, then tugs his arms free of the sleeves, then drops it to the floor. He stands with John’s gun firmly pressed just above the swell of his buttocks, and waits.

“On your knees.”

Sherlock sways back, keeping contact between his spine and the Sig. Christ, the weight of him, the way his body undulates against the gun as he sinks to his knees. The muzzle comes to rest in the damp, tousled curls at the base of his skull. His hands hang loose at his sides and he looks straight ahead.

John shifts around Sherlock’s right side to stand directly in front of him. The gun tracks with him, over Sherlock’s trapezius to the notch between his collarbones. John rests it there for a moment.

The flat is still. Mrs Hudson’s gone to bed, and there’s no traffic on Baker Street. John can hear his own pulse thundering in his ears, but can see the Sig’s muzzle lifting with each beat of Sherlock’s heart. _Elevated_ , he thinks distantly. Very elevated, but counting is beyond him right now.    

He stares down while Sherlock stares up. Sherlock’s erection is flushed dark, the tip wet, foreskin fully retracted. There’s no shame in Sherlock’s eyes, no desire to hide. Just a challenge, a darkness incongruent with the pale irises. _I’m capable of this, and you are a fool not to see it._

Sherlock’s tongue traces his lower lip. Whether the movement was conscious or not, John knows how to take an opportunity. “Excellent idea,” he says, as if Sherlock has spoken, which in a way, he has. Loud and clear. “Hands behind your head.”

Sherlock’s arms lift and fold at the elbows, and Christ, he’s a sight, bare to his hipbones, muscles taut and defined under his skin. What little light comes through the sitting room windows gleams on the dark metal notched between his collarbones. His fingers lace together, curls twisting between them. Without taking his eyes from Sherlock’s, John opens his belt and flies one-handed. He doesn’t fumble, and he doesn’t lift the gun from its position at the base of Sherlock’s throat. The sound Sherlock makes when John pulls his shaft free is too light to be a groan, and too desperate to be anything but desire.

John smears his glans against that plush lower lip, leaving it slick with precome. “Open.”

Sherlock does. John steps closer and slides in, all in one movement, going deep on the first thrust. Sherlock can take that, takes it often, so John’s quite confident that what wrecks him, what makes him groan deep and low like thunder, is the way John lays the gun’s barrel alongside Sherlock’s jaw as his cock nudges the back of Sherlock’s throat.

“Suck,” he commands.

Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter, but he obeys. On his knees with his hands behind his head, he has no leverage to do anything but use his mouth, and use it he does. He hollows his cheeks when John pulls back, tongues the frenulum when John pauses, then opens and softens to take John’s cock throat-deep. Desire pulses down John’s spine. He strokes the gun barrel along Sherlock’s cheek in time with his thrusts, watches color stain the pale skin just above the dull metal. Sweat slicks the gun’s path, but not before friction has reddened the skin.

When they’ve established a rhythm, John releases the base of his shaft, puts the heel of his hand at Sherlock’s hairline, weaves his fingers into damp curls, and _pulls_. Sherlock groans. John tugs Sherlock’s hair until he opens his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, his lips stretched, his chin wet with saliva. He has no ability to control John's thrusts and based on the way his eyelids flutter shut again, no desire to do so, either. On his last thrust John tips the gun so the sight faintly scores Sherlock’s cheek, then pulls out. Mouth open, eyes closed, Sherlock chases his cock, but John rights him with his fist in Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock opens his eyes. Flint to tinder, and John’s spine lights up. “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs.

He drops to his heels. They’re close enough to kiss, but the only contact he gives Sherlock is the Sig’s muzzle, dragging along his cheek to his open mouth. Sherlock’s tongue flicks out as he moans, and _Christ_ , that’s really a _sight_ , but John keeps moving. When the gun glides along his throat, Sherlock’s head lolls back on his neck. The tendons stand out as John draws the gun down his sternum, over his abdomen, to his cock. It’s dark red, perpendicular between his hipbones. John continues alongside it to nudge and then lift Sherlock’s balls. A body-length shudder accompanies Sherlock's groan.

John balances himself with the fist in Sherlock’s hair and uses the hand holding the gun to shove Sherlock’s jeans a little farther down. His wrist and the top of the barrel brush Sherlock’s balls and thighs as he does. Sherlock is making noises too high-pitched for a man with a baritone speaking voice, and too unconscious for a man in his right mind.

His eyes are closed when John leans in to kiss him. The faint taste of gun oil lingers on Sherlock’s lips. John’s got the gun muzzle pressed into Sherlock’s pelvis, the barrel alongside his straining shaft when his tongue sweeps into Sherlock’s open mouth. He pulls the trigger, hears the click, and feels Sherlock’s gasp draw air from his own lungs.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open.

John doesn’t flinch, just lets him see: _You’re a fool if you think I’m not capable of this._  

John bares his teeth against Sherlock’s lips, then stands, the gun retracing its path from cock to throat as he rises. Mouth still open, Sherlock tips his head back. John walks around Sherlock’s raised, bent arms, his fist still gripping Sherlock’s hair. For a moment he’s bewitched by the thought he could shove the clip back into the Sig and give Sherlock what he really, really wants…

_No._

John stares at the long fingers woven tight through wild curls. There’s no slight separation of Sherlock’s fingers, no hedging his bets, no self-protective instincts in play, which is no surprise at all. John presses the gun against Sherlock’s cervical spine and uses his grip on Sherlock’s hair to push him face-first into the rug. Sherlock doesn’t try to break his fall. He keeps his hands behind his head and grunts when his cheekbone hits the floor, but the initial shock subsides into a groan so carnal John has to shut his eyes and tighten all the muscles in his pelvis to stay in control.  

The movement bares the lower curves of Sherlock’s arse. His skin is damp with sweat, and a pink flush is spreading down his back.

John releases Sherlock’s hair, goes to his knees behind Sherlock, then withdraws the lubricant in his front pocket. It’s a bit of a trick to uncap the tube one-handed, but he does it, smears some over the fingers of his right hand. He digs the Sig's muzzle into the base of Sherlock’s spine as he slides one finger in. Tremors run through Sherlock’s body. John limits himself to a shallow glide, then pushes a second finger in and adds a rotation of his wrist. Hands still interlaced behind his head, Sherlock undulates and keens with frustration.

John taps the gun on his back. Sherlock stills.  “Problem?” John asks.

“I want…”

“I’m waiting.”

“I want to spread my legs.”

John gives his fingers an appraising twist in the tight ring of muscle. “You’ll be tighter this way,” he says, as if his pleasure is the only thing on his mind.

A tremor ripples down Sherlock’s spine. “Please, may I spread my legs?”

John nudges the jeans. “Take 'em off. Stay down,” he adds when Sherlock shifts to straighten.

Sherlock hooks his thumbs in his jeans and pants and works to get them to his knees. It’s dark and elementally wrong and so fucking hot, the way he struggles, the contrast between his bared body and John’s fully clothed one, his cheekbone still pressed into the carpet. When Sherlock can’t lower the jeans any further, John uses his free hand to strip Sherlock’s pants and jeans down.

He smooths his palm over the curve of Sherlock’s buttock. “Go on, then. Let’s see you.”

But first _oh Jesus fucking Christ_ Sherlock clasps his hands behind his head again, nuzzling his cheek into the carpet. John sees the abandon in his parted red lips, his fluttering eyelashes. Only when his long fingers are woven at his nape does he widen his stance and give a low, long, luxurious moan.

John’s heart is going to beat right out of his chest. He’s never…he would never…oh fuck.

He shuffles forward between Sherlock’s thighs, reaches around to squeeze Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock groans. John strokes it, then lets it slap back against Sherlock’s abdomen. The next noise Sherlock makes is decidedly higher in pitch, bordering on desperate.

“Give me some brace,” John says.

All the muscles in Sherlock’s shoulders, back, and arms tense as he braces his elbows against the floor, leaving his hands clasped tightly at the base of his skull. After John’s through with him, he’ll have carpet burn on his elbows as well as his knees, but that’s Sherlock’s problem.

John uses his right hand to align his cock, then pushes in. Sherlock’s stretched just barely enough, so tight, and John slides in, in, _in_. He groans when he bottoms out. A slow withdrawal and thrust, exactly the way he likes it. He finds his rhythm, slow and hard, blood hot around his cock and blood dark in his mind. The scent of gun oil mixed with sweat and sex and the unconscious abandon of Sherlock’s groans crack him open.

“Lower,” he says without stopping.

Sherlock widens to the point of strain. John can feel the tendons trembling in Sherlock’s groin, but that doesn’t stop Sherlock from tipping his arse back and up, angling for the crucial glide across his prostate with each stroke. The Sig skids on Sherlock’s sweat-slick skin. John grips Sherlock’s shoulder for greater leverage and drives his hips forward, forcing Sherlock to provide uncompromising resistance. Huffs and gasps jerk from both of them in counterpoint to the slap of his hips against Sherlock’s buttocks.

_The fucking I didn’t get tonight? Hands and knees, you pounding into me?_

The words echo in John’s mind. Sherlock’s getting what he wanted, and more, but Sherlock always does, and damn the consequences for unsuspecting bystanders. Because John has never…would never…and yet here he is.

Between holding Sherlock in place and holding a gun to his spine, John has no hands free for working Sherlock’s cock. He’s not going to tell Sherlock to do it; the visual of Sherlock with his hands white-knuckled behind his head is just too good to let him touch himself. But the stars are all aligned: gravity, leverage, power play, a pace slow enough to stretch it out yet hard enough to make Sherlock fight to stay in position, and the gun, hot and slick with sweat against his skin. Sherlock sobs like he’s in pain.

John knows he isn’t. “You want it bad.”

“Please. John, _please_.”

“Take it like this,” John growls. He jams the Sig just under Sherlock’s fingers, and _yes, fuck, yes_. “Do it. Fucking _take it_.”

The sounds coalesce into one long cry as Sherlock goes off, untouched. Base instinct compels him to thrust forward when he comes, but John yanks him back where he wants him and slams into him again. The sharp, helpless cries and pulsing contractions around his cock send John over the edge. Without a hint of regret he takes what he’s just denied Sherlock and shoves that extra bit deeper into Sherlock as his vision goes black.  
 

Someone’s saying _Christ_ over and over.

 

It turns out to be John.

 

The gun slips from his trembling hand, thuds to the carpet. Shaking from head to toe, he pulls out and slumps back against a leg of the desk. His heart is thundering like he’s run a mile at top speed, and his muscles twitch randomly. Sherlock plants first one hand, then the other, on the carpet by his shoulders, then rolls compactly to his back. He kicks free of his jeans and pants and stretches out stark naked on the floor. He tilts his head to the side and looks at John.

John stares back. “You could have just told me,” he says. “Let me in on the secret.”

Sherlock looks at the ceiling. “Boring.”

But watching John dance wasn’t. He wonders what else they’re both capable of, how they’re underestimating each other.

John’s exhausted, tired to his very bones. His shoulder aches, and he’s raw and trembling from two rough sessions in one night. “Just…give me some warning next time.”

Sherlock says nothing at all.


End file.
